Under the Influence
by X6Herbius
Summary: Something I was inspired to write - what if a drunken hooligan decided to mess around in front of a Metro Cop? Things wouldn't be pretty. Rated M for the violence, after objections to T.


**NB: I've fixed this rating to M after a shoutout from VisualIDentificationZeta. Zeta, please take into consideration the reply I have sent to your review; if you wish to disuss it further, message me.**

**I got inspiration for this story when we were unfortunate enough to travel up to Gatwick Airport for our skiing holiday on Saturday in a Railway Service bus, as there were engineering works happening on the main lines. We had to tolerate a crowd of drunks from East Croydon for the whole hour's journey and it wasn't pretty. The situation made me wonder about what would happen if one of the drunks had tried it on with a policeman...maybe in HL2... I hope this depicts it clearly enough. ;)**

**For the squeamish ones, you might not want to read on due to the single instance of violence which is described.**

* * *

The man in the white jacket swayed slightly on the spot. His balance was delicate. He stood out from the crowd, not just because they were all wearing blue; his breath reeking of alcohol, his eyes unfocussed, his speech slurred and ambiguous, he saw the world through a rainbow tint that was constantly shifting and morphing.

The man had had far too much to drink. He'd obtained the liquor illegally, of course - the Black Market always had always proved popular with citizens desperate for a pint or two - and little did the man know he was about to pay the price for his indulgence.

The man wobbled unsteadily towards a set of white painted double-doors. He was born in what was formerly Scotland and the accent he spoke in still strongly betrayed his highland roots. As the man approached a single Civil Protection officer standing on duty he gave a deranged cackle, a smell of stale sweat and yeast produce lifting into the air.

"Aaaaaarrrrrright, maet? What'cha doin' standin' out ther' on yar oown? You ain't got no _fthriends_ or somethin' or nothin' or somethin'?"

At the undue mispronunciation of 'friends' the drunken man spewed a fountain of saliva onto the helmet of the Metro Cop in front of him. The cop turned to face him in irritation and a couple of passers-by turned their heads, regarding the man's ludicrous act in slight incredulity. Spitting on an officer was never a good idea, as many a citizen had found out to their peril.

_"Move away,"_ the cop ordered the clueless man. _"This area is strictly off-limits."_

The face of the man fell into a slightly stupified grimace. "Aaaarrrr cum arn" he spluttered in protest. "Yar havin' a moody one, you ar. Cheer up, Sonneh Jim, cheer up." The man slapped a barely controlled arm around the shoulders of the officer who pushed him sharply backwards with a gloved hand. He staggered for a few moments, teetering on the edge of the curb from the force, before gradually regaining his balance.

_"I said __**move away.**__"_ The cop surveyed the hooligan with a deep dislike, as he steadied his footing properly on the pavement. _"You look under the influence. We've had a couple of cases like you recently. All have been __**dispatched with...**__"_ The cop paused maliciously at the end of the sentence, staring the misfit citizen squarely in the face. _"Where did you obtain your alcohol?"_

"Aaarrrgh, yer wantin' sum now?" The man began his sentence with the same garbled yell as the last two times he had spoken. He laughed again, closing his eyes and leaning on the disgruntled Metro Cop who grabbed him violently by the shoulders.

_"__**Where did you get it?**__"_

The man cautiously ran a hand through his non-existent locks of hair. The morning sunlight glinted softly off his bald pate.

"Meh Jack Daniels'? Aaih got et off of de market, o' curse. You shuld try teh maarket," he rambled. "Iss gud, is 'eh market. Iss gud. Ess..."

The man's confused speech tailed off again into laughter. More citizens passing from the main plaza slowed to watch the unfortunate events unfolding; the cop, however was having no nonsense. Slapping the drunk briskly around the face he shook him again.

_"Liquor is illegal. You know that, you dumbass?"_

At this comment the citizen's face screwed into a tangled mask of anger.

"Dohn't yer tuch _me,_ yeh lousy bast-"

The man's loud outburst of profanity was obscured by a metal clunk as his hand collided sharply with the metal face plate of the officer's helmet. He stood for a second, a red mist clouding his thoughts, as the cop quickly regained his composure.

_"OK..."_ he muttered, almost inaudiably. Leaving the citizen standing on the sidewalk, an almost retarded grin plastered over his face, the officer poked his head around the door he had been guarding and began to rummage in an unseen container. He resurfaced a few moments later wielding a sleek, black, double-barrelled shotgun, and before the sluggish drunk could react the cop had him firmly in a strangling headlock with the dangerous end of the weapon forced against his temple.

_"Citizens of City 17,"_ he called loudly out into the steadily gathering crowd. _"We know you are using the Black Market illegally. It is only a matter of time before we find out, and __**each and every one of you**__ will live to regret the day you crossed the Combine authority. Some of you might not even live at all..." _The cop smirked in malice, cocking the shotgun against the slightly struggling hooligan. _"Let this be an example to you all..."_

The citizen, now grinning ridiculously as if the situation were some sort of joke, gave a guffaw from under the officer's iron grip. "Heh," he slurred. "They's all lookin' at meh..."

The shot, fired through both barrels, echoed through the small, cobbled streets. Those who weren't watching turned around, quick as lightning, to regard the scene with horror. Those who had seen were rooted to the ground.

The top of the unfortunate citizen's crown landed with a sickening splat at the feet of a blond-haired woman, blood spraying copiously onto the stone ground. Pieces of flesh and God knew what else dropped from the mutilated skull. The face of the man had been ruptured, blown completely in half by the blast: all that remained was half a nose and a mouth, still smelling strongly of alcohol. The eyes were nowhere to be seen.

The world had fallen silent at the sound of the shot; it stayed that way until one of the onlookers fell to the ground in a dead faint. Some gagged, others swore. The woman who had received the top of the skull at her feet promptly turned around and retched onto the cobbles in disbelief and disgust.

Dropping the twitching body of the citizen to the ground, the Metro Cop wiped a hand casually down the front of his suit. He examined the large bloodstain with a slight distaste.

_"HQ,"_ he announced over his radio. _"We've had a Terminal Verdict at the Main Station Plaza, East Lane. Send someone to clean up."_

Stepping over the growing puddle of deep red blood, the cop slunk back inside the building. _"I'm gonna get changed."_

Slowly the crowd of people dispersed, trying to forget what they had just seen. One woman stood, crying, against a wall just around the corner from the incident. All that was left was the massacred body of the drunk, his pale right hand reaching through the pool of blood to the curbside.


End file.
